


The Grey Man

by MrSpears



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Asphyxiation, Biting, Incest, M/M, Oral Fixation, Suicide, Undertaker suicide, Vore, underage Vincent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:58:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4265820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSpears/pseuds/MrSpears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at Undertaker's life before his suicide, when his name was still "Edward Phantomhive" and he was madly obsessed with his young nephew Vincent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Little Cruelty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



He wasn’t an old man, but he was grey. His hair had gone from ink black to iron in the span of a mere three years, not that anyone had cared to notice. He was a respectable age still, forty-five, and a year younger than his brother. His given name was Edward. Every now and then, he thought about it – the absurdity of its simplicity - and it made him giggle. 

Marriage had occurred almost twenty years ago, and it had not lasted long. His wife took to bed two months after their wedding and died of consumption. God bless the poor, fragile thing. He had not taken another wife since. No woman of title would have him, not after a certain incident involving two choir boys – a scandal that had shattered his reputation forever and, had he been the eldest son, would have driven his family name into the dirt. Thankfully, he had managed to dance by execution altogether, settling for a black scowl and sharp reprimand from the reigning monarch. Because he was not the eldest son, and his older brother was none other than Quintin Phantomhive. 

That alone had been his saving grace… as he was consistently reminded every day of his life. 

His plummet from the heights of society had been swift and efficient as an executioner’s axe. 

Now he lived on his brother’s charity alone, floating around the Phantomhive manner and shunned like an unsightly cobweb. His sister-in-law hated him, shooting him grave looks and shuffling her children away from his path whenever she caught of glimpse of him down the hallway. His brother ignored him, unless it was to chastise him in one way or another – largely, these days, it was about his appearance. His hair was too long, his nails needed to be trimmed. And for God’s sake, brother, black is best suited for mourning, not afternoon tea. 

Needless to say, he existed largely on the mansion’s upper levels… tucked away in secret rooms and dusty libraries where no one could rap him on the knuckles and remind him to be grateful. 

His room could graciously be described as a mess. He had a bed, but he didn’t use it. It was buried beneath stacks of books, usually something pertaining to the occult. He had gone through great pains to procure them and was glad for his brother’s lack of attention to his existence, for they had spawned in quantities too large to shove under his mattress any longer. 

Rather than his bed, he slept in a coffin. His own coffin, in fact, he had had himself measured. Ever since he had watched them lower his dear, puny wife into the ground – sheltered by that immense, groaning beauty – he knew he had to have one of his own. He had begged Quintin for one – using words such as “please” and “only thing I ever wanted”. His elder brother had caved, warning Edward that he would not pay for anything ridiculous or extravagant. 

Edward had laughed, and sent his measurements gleefully to Venice. 

The coffin was imported months later, intricately carved by rough Italian hands. You could smell the sun in the oil that sealed the dark wood and made it shine. It was line with black satin, cushioned with down, and little sachets of pine needles had been tucked into the corners. He had spent days cooing over her, running his tongue over her smooth curves, stripping down to his bare skin in order to feel the soft, cool satin. Sometimes, he would close the lid, and imagine he was dead. It made his heart pump with excitement, the feeling of the sides closing in, of his breath shortening as he started to run out of air. He wanted to be inside her forever, cradled by her arms for eternity, safe. 

Many times had he closed the lid and envisioned what it would be like to die, stroking the shaft of his own painfully erect cock as he did so. Every time, he reached the precipice of orgasm, and every time he denied himself ejaculation.

It wasn’t time yet. Because, regardless of what everyone thought or said… Edward still had something to live for. 

His nephew, Vincent Phantomhive, who more than likely was not aware of his existence. 

Vincent Phantomhive, at the tender age of thirteen, had already mastered the art of disdain. There were glimpses of it every time he flashed that haughty, superior look across the room. He was fond of correcting people. He corrected his tutors on their history. He corrected his father on most business matters. He corrected his mother, when she addressed him by any endearment other than “Vincent”. He had always been a precocious child, but Edward knew that if the boy had a mind to, he could seize the earldom by its throat and rule the family with a cold, manipulative hand. 

Edward liked to lurk in the door and shadows of the study, watching Vincent during his lessons. The future earl always managed to look bored, swinging one delicate leg with its perfectly formed calf over the other, his cheek resting against his curled fingers. His black hair – too long for what was appropriate for his age – framing a sharp, smooth jaw still in formation and padded by a layer of baby fat. Edward wanted to run his hands up those smooth calves and bite the inside of those creamy white thighs. He wanted to suck on supple, tender skin and turn it purple. He thought of taking Vincent’s garter between his teeth and pulling back before releasing it again, and liked to imagine the sharp snap it would make against such firm, young flesh. There would be welts, bruises, bite marks… each one traveling up and down that delicate body, and his nails would draw red paths connecting each one. 

Pain. Ecstasy. He wanted to know what Vincent’s cool, arrogant expression would come to resemble when marred by both. 

“I know you.” 

Edward was startled. The boy’s voice carried across the room, and his cold blue eyes pieced the shadows that usually concealed him so well. 

Edward looked up, meeting the boy’s gaze, and gave a wide grin. 

The tutor had gone, probably in tears. 

“Do you?” Edward crooned, not moving from his spot. “Who am I?” 

“You are the grey man.” Vincent brought his nails around to observe them, picking at an unsightly hangnail. 

Edward’s smile broadened, stretching the corners of his mouth in an unsettling way. He stood, the black tails of his coat dragging over his seat, and he made quick, long strides towards his nephew. 

“Yes.” Edward said. “You are quite right. I am the grey spectre of this manor.” 

“You watch me during my lessons.” Vincent said, narrowing his eyes. “And when I sleep. Sometimes you are there in the corner. You don’t think I can see you, but I do.” 

Edward laughed. He tried to soften it; so it came out closer to a wheeze. 

Vincent lifted his chin. There it was, that precious disdain.

“You don’t want to hurt me.” Vincent said. 

“Oh, but I do.” Edward giggled, dropping to one knee beside the future earl. “In all of the ways you will find pleasurable.” Edward slipped his hand over the boy’s ankle, only daring to touch that much. That beautifully formed calf was within inches of his reach, and he could not bear to bring himself to sully it just yet. He wanted to memorize its shape, the taunt muscles, the glorious creamy satin skin. 

Vincent gave him a long look through lowered, thick black lashes. The boy could not know how he was seducing the older man with the firm set of such a shapely, red mouth that he didn’t’ even know he possessed. 

“If you’d like,” Edward said. “I can show you where I live.” 

Vincent looked around, as if deciding whether or not he had anything better to do. He then shrugged, and one leg slid over the other; such a curt, precise motion making Edward’s heart flutter. The boy rose to his feet, and then nodded to Edward as If indicating he was now permitted to lead the way. 

Edward knew that at this time of day, no one would be in the hallways. It was a short distance from the study to his room, quite thankfully. When they reached his bedchambers, he closed the door, locking it behind him. 

Vincent wrinkled his sharp nose. 

“What is that smell?” the boy asked.

“Pine,” Edward said, placing his hand against the small of the boy’s back. Vincent didn’t seem to notice. He walked over to the coffin, immediately drawn to its beauty, as Edward had hoped he would be. He could only ever fantasize about having both of his beauties in the same room, reveling in each other’s perfection.

“Why do you have a coffin in your room?” Vincent asked. “Do you intend to die, soon?” 

“We all must die. And the wisest of us will be prepared.” Edward approached the boy again, reaching around his chest and slipping long, skinny fingers underneath the lapels of his small coat. Vincent glanced over his shoulder, then shrugged, allowing Edward to slip the coat off. It fell gracelessly to the floor. 

Edward’s blood was pounding in his ears. This was the closest he had ever come to a religious experience. He placed his hands on the boy’s trim waist, lifting him up effortlessly and setting him on the lid of the coffin. 

Edward knelt again, keeping his shoulders hunched to shave a few inches off his excessive height, even kneeling on the floor. He cupped Vincent’s expensive black heels and slipped them first one, then the other off delicate feet. The garter clips were next. With great relish, Edward reached up, setting his open hand against Vincent’s thigh. He leaned over, kissing the inside of it, where it was still cool. 

Vincent leaned back, settling against his palms, regarding the man in front of him with what could be considered mild interest. He spread his legs further, as if to see what the man would do. Edward allowed his lips to wander further, kissing the place on Vincent’s thigh where the hem of his shorts ended, and the skin was getting warmer, the closest to the groin without being obscene. 

Edward fulfilled his first fantasy. He slid his tongue underneath one of Vincent’s garter straps, taking it between his teeth and pulling back. It smacked against perfect flesh, and Vincent twitched in surprise, though his expression never changed. 

Edward kissed the heated, red mark left behind by the garter strap. Then he unclipped it and its twin before pinching the tops of the boy’s silk stockings between his fingertips and peeling them, slowly, away from the holy calves his newfound god. 

Vincent’s skin was softer than the satin of his coffin. 

Edward opened his mouth again, sliding his tongue over his drying lips and pressed his mouth greedily to the child’s leg, sucking as hard as he could. Not a sound, not even another twitch from Vincent. Edward dared to go further, biting down on the firm flesh. When he pulled his mouth away, there was an ugly dark bruise, a hideous splotch of color on a perfect canvas. 

The older man was overcome with desire at the sight of the bruise. He wanted to devour every inch. He wanted to take every part of Vincent that he feasibly could into his mouth, sucking and biting, making him writhe and scream. 

He closed his eyes. Savor, Edward, savor.

Edward removed the other stocking, sliding it down and giving Vincent’s second calf the same treatment as the first. It was impossible to hold back. He had to claim more, had to venture into more delectable territory. Edward reached up and grasped Vincent’s shorts, prepared to yank them down the boy’s hips. He wanted to see sharp hipbones, the deep crevices that would lead into parts too soft and delicate at this age. He could not wait to sink his teeth into them, to hear the scream being ripped out of Vincent’s throat. 

His head snapped backwards, a small foot slamming into the soft part of his chin. Edward blinked in surprise, an odd sound emerging from his throat at the sudden impact. He pulled his head back down to look at Vincent. The thirteen year-old was looking down his nose at the older man, resting his icy toes against Edward’s chin, utilizing them to grip his bottom lip and tug on it in a way the older man found endearingly odd. 

“No.” Vincent said, his young voice edged with authority. 

Edward opened his mouth and inhaled as if to speak, but then he paused, his brow furrowed. It was like he didn’t comprehend entirely what the boy had said. 

“…No?” Edward asked. 

“I did not give you permission.” Vincent said coldly, and pushed himself forward on his palms. He slid over the surface of the coffin, dropping off the side, bare feet landing on the wooden floor. 

Edward stared at his young nephew for a long minute before his face split open in a grin. Vincent glared at the expression, but Edward could not hold back his wild laughter as he rocked back on his knees and fell flat on his back, his chest convulsing until it pained him. 

“I fail to see what is funny.” Vincent said stepped closer until he was standing by Edward’s head and looking down. 

“Everything,” Edward gasped. “Everything is so delightful and… amusing!” his laughter was cut off as he choked, the sudden violent pressure courtesy of a dainty heel grinding down into his throat. 

“Vincent…” Edward tried to spit the word out of his mouth. It amazed him, how helpless he suddenly found himself, his breath stolen by a young boy’s heel. 

He couldn’t breathe. And he loved it. 

“You are trying to say something?” Vincent leaned over, putting more pressure on the older man’s throat, short enough that he could get close to Edward’s ear. “Wipe that grin from your face or choke to death on your laughter, old man.” 

Edward’s smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He whined when Vincent did not let up his heel immediately; and when the boy finally did, he pulled his foot back and settled it on top of Edward’s hand, pressing all his weight down onto the older man’s fingers. 

Between soft flesh and unforgiving wood, Edward was in ecstasy with the promising throbs that would hopefully give way to real pain. 

“I see you following me.” Vincent said, his words a dim echo from their earlier conversation. “I know the sort of things you want from me. You have had a taste, and now…” he ground harder against Edward’s fingers. “…You want more. Every bite will cost you dearly. This isn’t a game to see who will win. I have already won; your vulgar groveling has made that clear. And now we are going to see exactly how much you can endure… before you break.” 

Edward sucked in a deep breath, staring up into emotionless blue eyes.

“…You think my groveling is disgusting?” the older man asked.

“Yes. I expect to see more.” Vincent lifted his heel. Edward pulled his hand to his chest, cradling it as he sat up. He ducked his head, gray hair falling free of its binding into his face, hopefully enough to conceal the corners of his smile. 

“All for you, little cruelty.” He whispered. “Just for you.”


	2. His Dog: Hopeful

Elegant white fingers pulled back, pausing only for a moment before flicking the dart. It sang as it spun through the air, burying its spike savagely in the center of the target. 

“Vincent Phantomhive.” The future earl said, his voice deadpan as he picked up another dart and rolled it around in his fingertips, contemplating the target. He drew his hand back again, and the dart sailed, striking a space in the target right beside its twin. 

“I am Vincent Phantomhive.” He said again, and picked up another dart. 

This had been going on all morning. Edward was beginning to wonder if it would actually end, or if he had managed to become mired in some deep pit of hell that left him sealed in a room with a thirteen year-old boy who had spoken nothing outside of the single declaration of his own name since breakfast. 

The third dart missed altogether, glancing off the wall and dropping to the floor like a stoned bird. Vincent narrowed his eyes, grabbing his buffed thumbnail between his teeth and regarding the fallen dart as a mutinous traitor.

“I missed.” He said, his inflection never shifted, Edward almost missed it. 

“Thank God!” he sucked in a deep breath, grateful for the change of pace. His eyes widened when he was pinned underneath a pair of vicious, glaring blue eyes. 

“I only meant… thank God that you finally decided to utilize a whole different faction of your vocabulary.” Edward’s hands went up defensively. “I was afraid you had turned idiot overnight. That’s all I’m saying.” 

Vincent’s lip curled disdainfully and he flicked his fingertips dismissively, as if the gesture were not worth the use of his entire hand. 

“Pick up that dart.” 

Edward obliged, rising leisurely and sauntering towards the fallen dart, stooping low to grasp it between bony fingers. 

“Are you going to tell me why you have been a prick all day?” 

Vincent held out his hand, palm up, waiting. Edward placed that dart in the future earl’s hand and the boy grasped it, hurling it towards the board and hitting as close to the center as he could with the others blocking the way.

“Retrieve them.” Vincent said. “All three.” 

Edward groused, walking over to the dartboard, he grasped the cluster of darts and pulled them free. 

“You’re mad about the nickname, aren’t you?” 

“I am an earl and you will use the proper nomenclature when addressing me.” 

“You are not an earl yet, my little cruelty.” Edward’s grin was wide. “You can give me a nickname, if it makes you feel better.” 

Vincent hardly spared him a look before tossing the next dart. “You have not even told me your proper name.” 

“Who is to say what makes a proper name?” Edward settled down the arm of Vincent’s chair. 

“Your parents, who graced you with one.” Vincent replied, clutching the next dart between his index and middle fingers.

“And what gives them the authority?” Edward lifted his chin. “Why should they have the ultimate say?” 

“Because if it were up to you, it would be something ridiculous.” 

Edward laughed. “Indeed, my little cruelty. Something out of a penny dreadful. Varney, perhaps, like the vampire?” he reached out and slid his fingers through Vincent’s dark hair, displacing only a few strands. Vincent’s hand shot up, as fast as lightning, and the dart’s shaft pierced the webbing between Edward’s thumb and index finger. 

Edward jolted with the contact, cackling with delight as he watched the blood spin a thin maroon web over the back of his grim, aging hand. 

“Tell me your name.” Vincent said, his tone implying he did not intend to make the same demand twice. 

Edward considered lying. He took a moment to weigh the benefits of doing so, yet in the end it did not seem worth it. Many shared his name, and Vincent would not necessarily draw the connections to a shunned uncle, the existence of whom he was more than likely not even aware. 

“It is Edward.” He said with a shrug and another grin. “Depressingly common, yes?” 

“Proper.” Vincent said. “I know three.”

“That is where nicknames become useful.” The older man said, licking the blood away from the back of his hand. “When there are three Edwards in the same room.” 

“I don’t think so.” Vincent remained unimpressed. He threw the last dart, it landed far outside its mark – but at least it hit the board. “I wish to do something else.” 

Edward’s heart began to pound as his thoughts started to run together becoming all one glorious, lascivious pool. All he could picture was what he had come so close to touching just a few days ago. He wanted to see Vincent undressed, see what he was hiding behind silk stockings and thin black shorts…

Of course, there were other parts of Vincent he would like to see too. Things touched yet not explored. He recalled, with fondness, the delicate heel that had rested so neatly in his palm, and the foot that it was attached to. The leg, a graceful limb, swelling into calves and thighs, lacking puberty’s rough skin and greasy oils – perfect long stems for his flower to stand proudly on. Would it not be tragic if Vincent were to lose one of those lovely feet? Just one, sliced away neatly at the ankle. A clean, tapered end suited perfectly to the frame. There would be prosthetic, of course, as medically advanced as money could buy. But it would slip away at night, the nub wrapped neatly in silk to spare itself sores. He would peel the silk away, and then… 

“You are not listening to a word I am saying.” 

Edward blinked slowly, his thoughts solidifying once again into something more coherent. His gaze drifted towards Vincent. The future earl was now sprawled across the chair, his feet had ended up resting in Edward’s lap as if they belonged there. Edward glanced down at shoes so black and shiny he could see his face reflected in the leather. How had he missed this transition? 

“I’m sorry.” Edward said, staring at the shoes in his lap. “I was not paying attention.” 

“Clearly. I am granting you permission to take off my shoes. They are pinching.” 

A slow grin spread across Edward’s lips. He reached down, grasping the buckled shoe’s slick heel and slipped it away from Vincent’s foot. There they were, concealed by the thinnest silk stockings. The most perfect toes. 

Edward wanted to bite them off. One by one. And swallow them whole. 

Those cold, unflinching eyes studied Edward as he removed the second shoe, allowing it to drop gracelessly to the floor. Edward’s hands trembled with excitement as he went to pinch the toe of Vincent’s stocking, intending to simply slip it away and…

Vincent’s feet pulled away as he righted himself in the chair. Edward felt like his heart was being dragged out of his chest in the same fluid motion. 

For the first time since they met, Vincent smiled at the older man. It was a predatory, mirthless expression. 

It vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. It was so fleeting that Edward questioned whether he had seen it at all. 

“They are small.” The older mad said defensively, as if that explained everything.

“I will take my tea. Join me.” Vincent said, rising from his seat. He looked Edward up and down and scoffed softly, under his breath. “And then we can discuss the merits of my toes.”


	3. Swallow You Whole

“What did you mean, ‘they are small’?” Vincent asked, his cheek resting on his fingers, curving inwardly toward his palm. 

“All of you is small.” Edward responded, lifting the teapot and tipping it over a small cup decorated with painted roses and scattered leaves. “That is why I am interested in you.” 

Vincent rolled his eyes and sat up straight, reaching over to pinch the teacup’s handle between his fingers. “Truly, your perversions know no bounds.” 

Edward’s gaze traveled over the young boy before him. “That is fair.” 

“I do not understand the appeal.” Vincent said, sitting back in his seat and smirking over the rim of his teacup. “In small things, I mean. I understand my own allure.” 

Edward smiled. “Oftentimes, we find the smallest morsels can be the most… decadent.” 

“Mm.” Vincent sipped his tea. 

Edward began to pour himself a cup. White steam rose into the air, skating over the brew’s dark amber surface. “You are beautiful, too beautiful to touch. As you are now, you are perfect, rich. Tantalizing. In a few years, your voice will be husky, your skin will be rough, and there will be no wonder for you in the world. No mystery behind the monster who lurks in your room at night. And I,” he set the teapot down. “Will be just another old man. Useless to you.” 

Vincent took another sip. 

“My explanation does not satisfy you.” Edward dropped a sugar cube into his tea. 

“It is lacking.” Vincent leaned forward, setting his cup down onto its saucer and resting his elbow on his knee. “I think there is one thing more.” 

“And what is that?” Edward asked. An amused grin. 

Vincent placed a finger to his mouth, sliding the very tip between soft, luscious red lips. Edward froze, spellbound by the movement, his fingers poised to drop a third sugar cube into his tea. 

“I think,” Vincent said, tracing the wet tip of his finger over his shapely mouth, making lips shine. “You need something small to overpower. You want something to hold down and…” he paused, the implication of a filthy word hanging in the air. But like everything else, Vincent left it unfulfilled. 

He slid his finger back into his mouth, taking it all the way to the base. He drew it out once more, this time a thin strand of saliva came with it, and he smiled at the older man.

Edward dropped the cube into his tea. It swelled over the edge of the cup and splashed onto the saucer. 

Vincent laughed. “You could not handle a man.” 

“I am head and shoulders over every man I know.” Edward said lifting his spoon to stir his tea but never dragging his eyes away from the boy. 

“Even so. You are too weak.” Vincent picked up his own teacup once more, and took another sip, savoring the bitter taste. “You walk with a hunch, cowering in your own presence.” 

“Unlike you, my little cruelty, I…” 

“That is another thing.” Vincent said testily, cutting him off. “The nicknames.”

Edward furrowed his brow. “What about them?” 

“A proper name has power. When you take away their name, you take away the weight that comes with it. You replace it with something nonsensical, reducing them to one or two minor traits. It is your way of controlling them, of changing how the world perceives them. At least in your own mind.” Vincent’s lip curled. “But it does not work. Outside of this room I am still Vincent Phantomhive. And you are Edward, the grey man lurking in the shadows. We will never be equals, and you will never have control. The sooner you accept that, the sooner we can move on to discussing other matters.” 

“What other matters?” There was a new feeling, a churning in his stomach, like he was going to throw up. Edward did not recognize it, 

“Well,” Vincent said. “I am very interested in hearing what you would like to do to my toes.”

“Bite them,” Edward replied without hesitation. “Bite them until they were sore. Until you could not walk.” 

“Your predilection for crippling me is nothing short of darling.” 

“It is the greatest form of affection.” Edward said. “To love someone so much that you wish you could unhinge your jaw like a snake and swallow them whole, carrying them inside you forever.” 

Vincent set a foot up on the edge of the small table in front of them, his heel balancing on the corner. 

“You love me, do you?” he asked, his face wiped clean of all expression. 

“Love is not powerful enough.” Edward’s eyes fell immediately to the precious ankle in front of him. “What I feel for you is unholy. The sins I would commit in your name would set fire to the cheeks of every demon in hell.” 

“You may take it off.” Vincent said, softening his voice only a little. 

Edward reached out, grasping the little shoe and sliding it away from the shapely heel. He set the shoe down, carefully, and he could just see the outline of Vincent’s toes through the sheer silk stocking. Eagerly, Edward slid his hands through the air, going up the length of the boy’s leg but not quite touching, until he found the top of the stocking. His fingers twitched, but he found himself looking up at a moon-pale face, begging for permission. 

Vincent’s red lips curved back in a smile. 

“Good dog.’ He said, and lifted his chin, the smile dissipating. “You may take it off, as well. Slowly.” 

Edward’s next breath tore at a stitch in his chest. He unclipped the garter and began to roll the stocking down, his fingers brushing satin calves, every shallow breath feeling like a stab in the chest. Finally, the stocking peeled away from Vincent’s foot, and the toes were revealed. Those beautiful, soft, round little toes. 

“One.” Vincent said. Edward was going to die of delight. 

He examined each toe carefully, agonizing over the selection. Like Vincent’s fingers, they were long and skinny, with round pads and neatly trimmed nails. They were free of blisters and any other unsightly blemish. There were no rough edges around the nail beds, no place where skin was being pulled away. The cuticles were white half-moons over shell pink nails which had been filed and buffed. If Vincent had intentionally prepared for this moment, he could not have perfected it any further. 

Edward made his choice. He pressed his lips to the tip of the smallest toe, nibbling on the soft pad. Vincent watched him, neither eyes nor posture giving away his thoughts. His mouth was set in a firm line. Severe, like his father. Edward banished that thought immediately and chose to never recall it again. 

Edward slid his tongue into the toe’s bent crevice, taking the whole thing in his mouth and sucking on it, the tip of his tongue prodding at the nail. Vincent’s skin was salty. Edward sucked it all away, and then his tongue withdrew, allowing his teeth to come into play. He bit down on the base of the toe, the pressure on his teeth causing his entire body to shiver and wrenched a low moan from the back of his throat. 

Unable to hold back, he bit down, harder. He wanted more pressure, wanted his teeth to ache. Harder, harder. Vincent tried to jerk his foot away; Edward just grabbed the heel, his other hand wrapping around the boy’s arch, holding the foot firmly in place. 

Harder. Harder. 

Flesh parted for his teeth and hot blood gushed into his mouth. He swallowed it all, and he felt his teeth hit bone. Frail, developing bones that cracked and then split for him. Edward growled, biting down as hard as he possibly could, he severed the last connections between toe and foot and jerked his head, ripping it away from any clinging tendrils, and swallowed it whole, 

Blood was pouring from his mouth, coating his chin and the front of his shirt. It was spurting from the wound. In a dizzy frenzy, Edward ripped away his jacket and wrapped it around the small foot, putting pressure on the wound in order to stop the bleeding. 

Clarity was slowly returning. He could still feel the warm flesh sliding down his throat, and his entire mouth tasted like iron. 

The foot he was holding so tightly in his hands was trembling. 

Edward looked up, as if suddenly remembering the foot was attached to something – a child. Vincent was gripping the arms of his chair, his entire body shaking – racked with pain. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and fat droplets rolled down his temples. Each breath was being dragged through his teeth while blood oozed from the split middle of his lips, the impressions of his teeth indelibly ingrained there. 

But he had not screamed. He had not made a sound. 

Cold blue eyes never tore away from Edward. The older man grinned at him, flashing his bloody mouth.

Vincent shredded another deep breath through his teeth before sitting back in his chair, sealing his lips back into their usual firm line and swallowing hard. He flicked the sweat away from his brow and pulled a fine linen handkerchief from his cuff, pressing it primly to his lips to sop up the blood. 

“You will pay for that.” Vincent said. “I did not give you permission.” 

“I look forward to it.” Edward said, pressing his jacket even closer to the wound. Blood soaked through the material, warm against his palm. “You need medical attention. I don’t know how you are going to explain this to your father.” 

“I could tell him the truth.” Vincent said dismissively. “And I might, as your punishment.” 

Edward narrowed his eyes. “You would not do that.” He said. “You want to punish me yourself.” 

“When I am through with you,” Vincent said coldly. “You will wish I had left your fate to my father.”


	4. Midnight Waltz

Black wax dripped slowly down the sides of the fat round candles, pooling in the center, deep obsidian wells that reflected sickly yellow flames. Accordingly, the overall lighting was rather dim. Edward had grown spoiled with whale oil lamps and their brighter, taller flames; but it simply did not seem correct…to engage in pederasty and simultaneously pretend to be a forward thinker.

Besides, candles set the mood. And Edward needed something to lift Vincent out of the one he was currently mired in. 

Blackberry wine. Perhaps that would do it. Edward set the crystal decanter on the table beside two matching glasses, all adjacent to a lovingly arranged bouquet. Edward spoke well the language of flowers, and found his combination of white asphodel and plum colored dahlias to be both tasteful and poetic. 

“Candles?” Vincent scoffed. “Which Plantagenet is on the throne?” 

“I thought they might be romantic.” Edward said, looking up. Vincent stood in the doorway, a tyrant barely scraping past four feet. He was going to have to hit a growth spurt soon. That, or get better lifts in his shoes. 

“Romantic?” Vincent entered the room, closing the door with his heel and tapping his cane – once decorative, now a necessity – against the wooden floor as he walked. He was limping, slightly, still unbalanced from the loss of his smallest toe. It had almost been a full week. Vincent had managed to convince his father that his foot had been trod upon by a horse. He had named the first gelding to pop into his head. The animal was shot and the grooms combed the estate for hours searching for the lost piece of the future earl’s dignity. Quintin almost immediately shrugged the entire thing off, ordering his son to ‘learn to live with it’ because ‘that is what Phantomhives do’. 

Now Vincent had a new walking stick, an ornate improvement from his last. Edward, in remaining undiscovered, had been allowed to keep his head. All was well, yet they had barely spoken over the course of Vincent’s healing. Whenever they did exchange words, Vincent had been in a foul distemper, and it did not seem as though this evening was going to be any better. 

“Romantic,” Vincent repeated disdainfully, as if Edward had not heard him the first time. “Is there anything about us, Edward, that you find particularly moving or intimate?” 

“I just thought…” Edward began. 

“I never gave you leave to develop feelings for me.” 

“You cannot control everything.” 

“Can’t I?” Vincent flashed back. The challenge hung in the air as Edward, unconcerned, began to lay out slight silver dessert forks. 

“What are we having tonight, then?” Vincent asked with a little huff of breath, walking closer to the table and grasping the back of a chair. 

“Blackberry wine.” Edward said, flickering eyes towards him. “And lemon cakes.” 

Vincent took his seat primly, crossing his legs and propping his cane against the edge of the table. “It is not a proper supper. Meat, you know, is very much in fashion these days. If you partook a little more, your skin would not be so ashen all of the time. Or perhaps you have given it up? A penance for your sins.” 

Edward glanced at him again, sucking a droplet of sticky blackberry wine away from his fingertip. “I have nothing I am interested in repenting.” 

“Really. Your tailor might appreciate some reform.” Vincent picked up one of the glasses and held it aloft, observing how the dim candlelight could only barely penetrate the dark purple depths of the wine. “Does he ever question why you are invariably dressed for a funeral?” 

“I always tell him to leave me prepared for my own.” Edward lifted his own glass and smiled over the rim, cackling. “It is very economical, don’t you find? It saves on the cost of an undertaker.” 

“A closed fist only becomes men with something to grasp.” The wine tasted unusually bitter. Vincent took one more deep swallow before setting the glass back down, wrinkling his porcelain nose. “I do not like this at all. I think it has gone bad.”

“Has it?” Edward’s smile widened. “I can’t taste the difference. Have some cake.” 

Vincent did not protest. He reached out to pick up one of the forks, noticing his movements seemed to be off by a beat, a little more sluggish than usual. He picked up the fork, his irritation with the entire evening continuing to mount as he buried the prongs into the moist, crumbling center of a quaint lemon cake, topped with vanilla icing. 

He dragged the fork to his lips, closing his lips over the delectable morsel, sucking on it rather than chewing and then swallowing hard before setting his fork down. The cake took two swallows to get all of the way down, and still felt like it stuck in his throat. And even though he did not like it, Vincent took another sip of wine. 

Only then did he register that Edward was trying to speak to him. 

“What did you say?” Vincent asked, and his own voice sounded warped, distant. 

Edward responded, but Vincent could only make out an incoherent string of garbled language that may or may not have been English. He glanced back down at his cake, knowing he wanted another bite, but it took an excruciating amount of strength to even summon the will to lift his hand again. 

His fingers would not curl entirely away from the glass. He heard it smash, but the sound was distant, and he found he could not care less as darkness swarmed in on the edges of his vision and his nostrils were filled with the overwhelming scent of lemon. 

 

~*~*~*~  
Long, thin fingers dipped below the rim of the silver-plated cosmetic pot, digging into the thick white Crème Céleste and gathering up a prodigious amount to slather across Vincent’s cold, pale cheek. Edward hummed as he worked, using his pinky finger to brush away stray crumbs of lemon cake from the boy’s nose as he continued to paint his face a harrowing death mask. Next would come a bit of black kohl, something to brighten up those blue eyes. Then rouge to liven the cheeks and dab on the lips, a theatrical representation of life. 

Vincent was not going to be pleased when he awoke. Even less so with the realization that the bitter taste in his wine had been laudanum. But Edward was not worried about that. For the moment, Vincent made a beautiful corpse. A bitter winter wind crept through the open window, blowing curtains of its way as it reached out for Vincent greedily, grasping him, holding him tightly – rendering his skin cool to the touch. 

The funeral garment came next. A dress of rich, heavy black fabric with stiff lace around the collar and cuffs, made for a child, though not specifically Vincent. Edward had come across it earlier that year. The client had died before the dress could be finished, and rather than discard it the tailor had opted to finish the piece and sell it at a loss. Edward had snatched it up immediately and had been saving it for the time he knew would come. A moment like this. His Vincent, helpless, limp in his arms and face painted like a wax figure. The dress slipped on easily, a little big around the chest and a little too snug around the arms, but nothing a tight tug on the laces did not manage.

There were stockings, of course, and little heeled black boots with buttons all the way up the side. Black gloves, almost too small even for a thirteen year-old boy’s hands, and a bonnet that tied under his chin with a satin ribbon. 

It wasn’t quite perfect yet. 

Next came soft wax, smeared messily over his fingertips so he could pinch sections of Vincent’s hair and slide the wax down their length, twisting them at the ends and leaving behind round, stiff curls. Edward smiled as he worked but held back every giggle that rose to his lips, wanting to treat this moment with as much reverence as possible. And he spent much of it hoping to God that Vincent didn’t wake up and ruin everything too soon. 

And then it was finished. Bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, Vincent was an ethereal, virginal maiden – life ripped brutally away from her body in her budding years.

Edward slipped his arm around Vincent’s waist, lifting him up, holding him tenderly like an expensive doll. He admired his own work, and brushed his free hand over one rouged cheek. Some of the rouge came away on his fingers. He did not care. 

Edward brought Vincent closer to him, and brushed his lips over the dry, painted ones. 

Desire slammed into his gut, taking his breath away. He crushed Vincent to his chest, pressing the boy’s face closer to his own, parting the small mouth with his large, intrusive tongue. He laughed when they parted, gripping one of Vincent’s gloved hands in his own. Keeping a firm hold on the limp, yet light body, Edward began to swing Vincent around in a dance – a macabre version of a waltz. The only music was in his head, but it was loud enough to drown out even his giddy screeching as they twirled, faster and faster. The close confines of the cluttered bedchamber had expanded into a spacious ballroom. There was a harpsichord, and glittering chandeliers gleaming like a million stars above their heads. Edward watch the ribbon’s flutter on Vincent’s bonnet, heard them snapping. He did not even know what direction they were headed in – all he knew was they were flying, demons spiraling into hell. 

Pain. 

Edward looked down. His leg was jammed awkwardly against one of the corners of the coffin. He stared at the offending object, still so lost in his delusion that he had temporarily forgotten where he was, and did not recognize what he had run into. He looked back down at Vincent, his chest tightening at the sight of the boy’s face, and he leaned down to steal another kiss. 

He pulled away, eyes falling again on the coffin, the fog lifting slowly from his mind. Edward smiled, and lifted Vincent up, settling him onto the cushioned satin interior, taking another long minute to admire the vision, the perfect picture of tragedy. 

He touched the front of Vincent’s dress, his hand slowly trailing down, grasping the skirt and lifting It up above the boy’s slender hips. Edward swallowed at the sight. He reached inside, taking hold of Vincent’s legs, parting them and pushing them up so he could climb into the coffin also, pushing his pants down just enough so that he could spring his cock free, and he slipped a finger through the satin undergarments he had also applied. He pulled them down the thighs, over the knees, bringing them to rest at Vincent’s ankles. He wanted to take longer to admire what was underneath, but his vision was blurry, his pulse racing with excitement. He leaned over and kissed Vincent again, sliding hands underneath his hips and lifting them up, pressing the tip of his cock between slightly warm, firm ass cheeks. 

A knock on the door, as heavy as a clap of thunder, sent Edward reeling. He struggled not to break anything as he tumbled off the side, falling to the floor with a thud and groping around for the coffin lid. His hands were trembling, and sweat was gathering in his palms, making it almost impossible to grip the heavy, unwieldy lid. 

“Edward?” he heard his brother’s voice, sharp and unrelenting. “Edward. I know you are awake. Open this door.”

“A moment!” Edward gasped, dropping the lid on top of the coffin and sliding it over Vincent’s body. A moment ago it had been so limp, and now it was starting to stir. 

His brother’s timing, as always, could not be worse. 

Edward could only hope that Vincent would exercise his usual sensibilities and not thrash about and bang on the coffin sides like a madman until Quintin had left. 

Edward was halfway to the door before he realized his cock was till flopping outside of his pants. Swearing, he grabbed it and stuffed it back inside, swiping the back of his hand across his face, smearing rouge over his lips and cheeks helplessly. He took a deep breath and pulled open the door, grinning at his brother like a child playing innocent after being caught pinching sweets. 

“Quintin!” Edward rasped. “How darling of you to come and acknowledge my existence.” 

“Edward.” Quintin said, his voice cold and clipped. Yet not nearly as severe as Vincent. “You are doing it again.”

“I’m sorry?” Edward asked, leaning casually in the doorway. He knew his face was flushed. He wondered how obvious it was that he was trying to catch his breath. 

“Terrifying the servants with your madcap laughter and banging about at all odd hours.” Quintin looked his brother up and down, but nothing really surprised him anymore when it came to Edward’s disheveled appearances. “You will cease immediately, or you know what I will do.” 

“Yes,” Edward said, a flash of a bed with chains and white straightjackets going through his head, and bedlam was not where he wished to end up. “Yes, Quintin. I am sorry to have disturbed you at this… hour.” 

“See that is never happens again.” Quintin looked him up and down again, his lip curling in disgust as he pulled away and started walking down the hall. 

Edward watched him go, waiting for him to disappear entirely before retreating back into his room, shutting and locking the door. 

He heaved a sigh, but his relief was short-lived. He turned and ran to the coffin, grabbing the lid and sliding it away. It landed against the floor with an ample thud, making him wince as he grasped the sides of the coffin, leaning over to inspect the state of his toy. 

A hand slammed into the side of his face, nails raking down his cheek. Vincent sat up, his head nearly knocking into Edward’s as he hit him again, leaning heavily against the side of the coffin, disoriented from the drug and flushed. 

“You,” Vincent spat through his teeth. “You have no clue what you have done.” 

“We nearly got caught,” Edward said, backing up.

“You were nearly caught. If you had been, they would have hung you. And believe you me, I was sorely tempted to thrash like a little brat and let my father find me in the worst possible state.” 

“Why did you not?” Edward asked, folding his arms. 

Vincent glowered at him, eyes two pale blue jewels in the soft lighting. 

“Because I am going to rip you apart and sew you back together. A living doll, a reanimated corpse to be my slave as recompense for your sins. And you will not simply let me, you will beg for every ounce of punishment you receive. And you will start,” the child lifted his chin, “Now. Get me some proper clothes. And then crawl onto the bed. The night is short, and I will have you crying blood by morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is very much based on the fact that we do not know anything about the Undertaker's past, or about his relationship/ fascination with Vincent (yet) (at least not at the time of posting). Undertaker is clearly portrayed here as a member of the Phantomhive family.


End file.
